


Wouldn't It Be Nice

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Porn, Honeymoon, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pregnancy Kink, Underage Sex, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 00:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: Two teenage boys + one honeymoon suite = pornTitle from the Beach Boys, I'm sure this is what they had in mind.(Sam is 14)





	Wouldn't It Be Nice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Exaggerated_Specificity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exaggerated_Specificity/gifts).



> For L, who keeps me sane on the darkest nights.

The woman who manages their motel has a frosted mullet and fingernails long enough to make Sam’s skin crawl.

“Darlin’, I know it’s hot.”

Sam can see the underside of her nails as she taps them against the fake-wood countertop.  They’re yellow and rippled, an unsettling contrast to the gleaming red lacquer sparkling on the top.  It’s the newest paint in this place by a good ten years.

Nevada is a mecca for drunks, divorcees, and degenerates, but it’s a private, sweaty hell for Sam.  Their AC had coughed itself to death sometime around 6 AM, and even the blessed site of Dean naked and drenched in sweat hadn’t revived his spirits.

“I can see if I’ve got another fan back here – “

Sam doesn’t like being hot.

“Irene, isn’t it?”

Dean’s fingernails are always clean.  It’s a thing.  He picks at them with a knife when he’s bored, pressing the tip under the little half-moon whites he barely grows out before he cuts them.

They feel better that way.

“See, Irene, the thing is, if it was just me, I wouldn’t care at all.”

Dean’s leaning on the counter, curling his shoulders toward the frowning Irene.  His tshirt stretches across his back, rising over new muscle that Dean seems to be picking up left and right.  There’s a floss-thin line of sweat soaked between his shoulder blades, dipping down his back to the waistband of his jeans.  Dean doesn’t wear shorts.

“But my little brother here, he’s got his SAT test tomorrow, and it’s real important to him, you know?  He needs to study up, kid’s got big plans for college.”

Sam won’t take his SAT for two years, and he’ll barely need to study for it when he does. 

“He’s real smart.”

Sam tries not to bristle when Dean ruffles his hair.  Cute little brother is a part he’s well-versed at playing.  Cute little brother who can give a shy smile while his big brother half-flirts with some old bat in Hellhole, Nevada.

“Look, kid, I’m sorry the AC’s out, but until your daddy gets back-“

“First thing tomorrow, I promise.  Like I said, he’s just paying his respects to our great-uncle and then he’ll be right back.  I gotta make sure Sammy here makes it to his exam tomorrow.  I’m 18, too, it’s not like we’re here without an adult.”

Irene gives Sam a wary look as Sam does his best “can I have some more, sir?” blink and shuffle.  At best their father is elbow-deep in werewolf guts, although Sam’s money is somewhere between sleeping off a hangover in the car and hitting some hair of the dog on his way to meet Bobby.

“It’s my fault, m’am, I forgot to remind him to leave some emergency money. It’s just –”

Dean ducks his head down before he looks up at Irene through his eyelashes.

“It’s just been real hard for him since our Mama passed away.”

Sam’s got the puppy dog eyes but Dean has the immaculate pout of exquisite sadness.  Sam doesn’t need Dean’s preternatural people skills to see Irene break.  The makeup caked around her too-red mouth cracks as she purses her lips.

“Well, we’ve only got one free room left, and I’m not sure it’s quite-“

“That’d be wonderful, Irene.  I’ll let my Dad know how you helped us out.”

They’ll be long gone before John Winchester can pay his respects, let alone his overdue bill.  Sam would almost feel bad for the mascara-spidered flicker of hope in Irene’s eye if he wasn’t stewing in his own ball sweat.  Dean palms the key and keeps his smile sincere until they turn the corner.

“Grab your shit, kiddo, we’re movin’ on up.”

Sam shoulders his duffel bag up the flight of stairs.  Dean’s last pool-hustle had landed him enough cash for some new clothes, which means his rear view is fucking spectacular as Dean bounds up the stairs in his tight jeans and a new John Deere shirt.

Everything that’s Sam’s was Dean’s first.  Dean doesn’t wear shorts but his old jeans had been hacked off at the knee and rechristened for Sam’s skinny legs.  They’re still too big around Sam’s slip-shod waist.  He can feel them hanging dangerously off his hips by the time he makes it to Room No. 9.

Dean doesn’t seem to mind.

“Holy shit, Sammy.”

Dean pokes his head out the door, his smile only growing as he looks at Sam’s losing battle with hand-me-downs and his metabolism.

“You’re not gonna believe this.”

The first thing Sam hears is the blessed, churning hum of the AC, although he barely has time to process it before a champagne cork flies past his head.  Sam drops his bag and closes the door as his feet sink into burgundy shag carpet.

“Oh, Irene.”

Dean whoops out a laugh and collapses onto an absurdly huge bed that, yeah, Sam’s not suffering heat stroke.  It’s heart-shaped.

“We got the honeymoon suite, Sammy boy!”

Champagne or what passes for it around here flows white and bubbly over Dean’s knuckles, dripping onto the garish red bedspread.  Nevada sunlight struggles past the matching drapes, casting the room in pink light.  Sam blinks his eyes, adjusting as he looks up.  Oh, God.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, pointing at the ceiling.

A matching heart spreads out from the plastic chandelier, reflecting back a slightly wobbly image of Dean hiked up on his elbows. 

Spread out in crimson tinge with his eyes raking over Sam, Dean’s got a face the Irenes of the world will never see.  Dad’s seen it a few times, when he’s too drunk for Dean to care or too wrapped up in a hunt to notice.  Sam’s seen it every night since he was old enough to take his own showers.

Their plastic champagne flutes have dust around the base.  It’s chilly in Sam’s hand, sweating because nothing can stand the heat here.  Sam’s never really tasted champagne before but he’s pretty sure it’s not supposed to taste like old juice that hurts your nose.  He downs it.

“He’s not gonna make it back till at least morning.”

Sam’s voice still cracks sometimes, because the wet dreams and the bone-ache growth spurts and the way he’s kind of crazy in love with his own brother aren’t bad enough.

Dean’s breath smells bubbly.  Sam doesn’t have to tip-toe to meet him anymore but he still cranes his neck up, savoring the quickly-closing inches between them. 

“You wanna get married, Sammy?”

Dean’s done so many things to Sam – snuck all his firsts out in hidden places, kissed him and plucked him and punched his V-card into confetti, made him feel things Sam’s sure people die without ever feeling.

Dean sweeps him off his feet and it hurts.

Even Dean staggers under Sam’s colt-limbed weight.  Sam just throws his arms around Dean’s neck and does his best not to say “I do.”

What the bed lacks in taste it more than makes up for in softness.  Sam sinks, a little giggly from the cheap booze and the smell of Dean as he peels his t-shirt off.  Dean smells so fucking good. 

“You wanna do a Vegas wedding? Elvis and the whole thing?”

Dean’s kicking out of his jeans and tugging Sam’s shirt up with his teeth.  Sam’s legs eagle up to the ceiling, his socks flashing dingy white in the mirror before Dean hauls them off along with his shorts.  He’s left with nothing but his briefs and a crumbling wall of teenage sarcasm between him and Dean’s hulking widow-maker of a cock.

“You think they’d care more that we’re dudes or that we’re brothers?”

Sam’s the bitch in their parlance and he tries to make it sound snarky, like he hasn’t just summarized 92% of what’s wrong with his life.  Dean can smell it on him, as good at stripping Sam down to sinew and wet underwear as he is at charming old ladies into false hope motel rooms.

“I think you look good in white, Sammy.”

Dean’s fingers press on his asshole and Sam can barely stand the look on his own face when he whimpers.  At least Dean doesn’t kiss him gentle.  Sam closes his eyes for Dean’s teeth, for the suck of his lips and his tongue rolling in time with his dick, like both ends of Dean can’t wait to get inside him. 

Dean’s necklace hangs between them when Dean tugs his briefs down.  The champagne flutes aren’t the only thing sweating and Dean grins, dragging his thumb over the head of Sam’s cock. 

“You’re all wet for me, sweetheart.”

Dean’s thumb is inside him faster than it should be, making Sam huff with pretty-please pain.  It’s been long enough since they fucked that he’s tight, has to work around Dean’s finger like he’s little all over again.  It makes him sweat with something other than heat, a bite that wriggles under his skin and makes him bite his lip to keep from begging.  The slip of tooth that always makes Dean’s kisses better.  Dean sort of broke him in wrong or maybe Sam just came that way straight from the factory.

“Aren’t you glad you waited, Sammy?”

Sam hasn’t waited for anything since middle school.  He hooks his legs up and looks past Dean’s shoulder, doing his best good-girl blink when Dean cranes his neck and catches his eye in the mirror.

Sam doesn’t look so cute when Dean growls and lines his cock up where Sam’s faking virgin.  He’s got lube but it’s just enough to get him in.  Dean curls down and tucks in and all Sam can see is Dean’s back on top of him, blotting out everything but Sam’s spider monkey limbs wrapping around him. 

“C’mon, let me in,” Dean murmurs, his lip arching into a half-sneer as he pushes against all the clutch Sam can muster.  It’s enough.  Dean’s teeth gleam in forgotten pink daylight when he bottoms out.

“S’too big, Dean.” Sam licks his lips and rolls his hips like it’s an experiment.  His wince is only half-fake and fully appreciated.  Dean might be his brother and the love of his teenage wasteland life, but he’s still a dude. 

“Shhh, just relax.”

The way Dean’s ass flexes when he buries himself even deeper will flash before Sam’s eyes before he dies.

“Gotta get it deep, sweetheart.”

They used to be able to see it in Sam’s belly, before Sam started creaming the sheets and leaving stray pubes on their motel soap.  He still looks little under Dean’s back, slender arms tugging tighter over bunched-up muscle and more freckles than Sam can ever kiss. 

“Gotta make sure we get you pregnant, right?”

Sam makes wife-sounds.

“Dean, fuck.”

Sam digs a hand into Dean’s shoulder, clawing his wedding vows onto Dean’s skin and biting back his own proposal. 

“Wanna make a baby, Sammy?”

Sam’s knew what felching was before he was in fifth grade but Dean’s trailer-romance drawl as he humps into Sam is the dirtiest thing Dean’s ever said to him.  Sam looks up, his reflection hazy from the crappy quality mirror and the not-tears in his eyes.  Under Dean he could be just another skinny-legged something with a different last name and parts Dean could put a ring on.

“Do it, Dean, fuck, knock me up.”

He keeps his arms hooked tight around Dean, keeps him from touching Sam’s dick or doing anything but rutting on top of him like a good husband.  Sam knows he can’t feel it when Dean comes but he’s fluent in Dean’s tells, the skipped rhythm of his hips, the dry suck of his breath coming out jagged, the way his lips drag against the peach fuzz on Sam’s face as he mumbles Sam’s name.

Sam wraps his legs around Dean’s waist, holding him there, deeper than blood and thicker than water.  He kisses Dean with his eyes closed and swallows his hurt noise when Dean slips out of him.

Who knows how much jizz is already soaked into this coverlet.  Sam sighs and wriggles into the wet spot forming beneath him despite his best efforts.

“Not sure if that one took, Sammy.”

Dean tucks him under his right side, running his fingers through Sam’s hair and sighing contentedly up at their reflection.  Sam turns until his face is smushed into Dean’s skin, breathing deep.  Dean smells even better after sex.

“Guess we have to keep trying, huh?” Sam squints at the Nevada sunlight battling their drapes.  Sam can have a little more happily ever after for today. 

“It’s your turn to get on top, though, I have to see this.”

Dean should be painted like this, with his sticky, heartbreaking dick half-hard on his belly, thick thighs splayed open without a care in the world, fingers strumming out a wedding march on Sam’s back.  Sam’s spent his whole life this close to things he’ll never have.  He swallows down any cold feet and flicks his tongue across Dean’s nipple until Dean’s eyes roll back in his head and he’s all Sam’s again.  Honeymoon’s are only ever one night anyway.

“I hope it’s a boy.”

Sam rolls over in his heart-shaped bed and gets to work.

 


End file.
